The Shadow Palace

by Jane Steen

  I knew she didn’t like Gambarelli’s all that much and felt safe from discovery. So my dismay was all the greater when, a couple of days after my meeting with Crabb, I heard her voice behind me.

  “I’d like to try this on, Miss.”

  I turned to find my friend pointing at a light blue hat with the peaked brim I’d suggested to Mr. Gorton. It was trimmed with white feathers and sprays of cornflowers. Although not of the best quality, it was an attractive enough article. Elizabeth was staring at me, indeed through me, as if she didn’t know me at all.

  “Of course, Madam.” I smiled brightly and removed the hat from its wire support, waiting until Elizabeth had unpinned her own hat. “It’s a perfect match for your eyes, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  I positioned the blue hat atop Elizabeth’s abundant hair and fetched a mirror so she could see it. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Miss Sweeny and Miss Green were busy with other customers.

  “Just how angry are you?” I said in an undertone while smoothing the large, curly white feathers so that they hung at the correct angle.

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “My dear,” she said just as quietly, “I’m not angry at all. I was a little annoyed that you seemed to be putting me off in your letters, especially after you’d been at Aldine Square for three weeks. It’s a pretty little place, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “Of course. I really need to talk to you, otherwise I wouldn’t have intruded.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to try this one as well,” I said in a louder tone. I took down a similar model, of a darker blue trimmed with white silk roses and pheasant’s feathers. “If you don’t like the feathers, we can alter it for you.”

  “Clearly, this is no time for a conversation,” Elizabeth said. “Do they let you out of this cage occasionally?”

  “I could get outside at six,” I said. “Say ten minutes past. Are you at the hotel?”

  Elizabeth’s pretty pink lips tightened into a straight line. “I am, for the moment,” she said. “But I’ll tell you more later. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  At ten minutes past six, I walked into the Palmer House, feeling oddly out of place. I had changed my dress, but I could still feel the Gambarelli’s uniform on my back, so much had it become second nature to be employed.

  Elizabeth thought differently. “Thank goodness you’re out of that dreadful rag.” She hugged me hard and kissed me on both cheeks. “It’s good to see you looking like yourself.”

  “It’s not all that bad,” I said. “Especially after I made some alterations so that it would fit better. I presume you talked with Tess?”

  “It took me a little while to convince her to give away your secret.” Elizabeth grinned as she led me to the far corner of the huge parlor, seating me in a winged chair that would hide me from casual observers. “You see, I can be discreet too. And persistent. Tess was marvelous—she didn’t crumble under my expert interrogation, and I’m my mother’s daughter and can usually winkle information out of anyone. She only spilled the beans, as the saying goes, when I told her how desperate I was to talk to you. Imagine my astonishment when I found you’d been working as a Gambarelli’s shopgirl all this time.” Her smile vanished, and she took my hand and squeezed it. “You must truly love Mr. Rutherford.”

  “I do, rather. I’m not sure how he feels about me at the moment though.”

  Elizabeth tilted her head to one side, looking remarkably like her mother in that gesture. “Do tell.”

  “There’s not much to tell.” I had removed my gloves and now laced my fingers together, looking down at the bare spot where my wedding ring usually resided. “I barely see him, and when I do, we seem to argue all the time. Or he looks at me in that dreadful blank way he uses with strangers when he’s hiding his feelings.” I swallowed. “He needs time, I know. He’s numb, I think, and terribly angry inside. I’m too impatient.”

  “And you need reassurance too. It’s only human.” Elizabeth curled her hand into a fist and gently rapped her knuckles on the back of my hand. “Poor Nell. I wish I could help you.” She was silent for a long moment and then spoke again. “Mother’s sending me back to Lake Forest tomorrow.”

  “You make it sound like an exile.” I was amused.

  “It is.” The words came out so vehemently that I was surprised. “It’s a punishment.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Punishment for what?”

  Elizabeth stared hard at the blue cuff on her day dress, picking at a tiny flaw in the silk. “For making a fool of myself over David—Mr. Fletcher. For writing to him, setting up assignations with him, and inviting him to dine at the hotel. Without a chaperone.” Her rounded cheeks were aflame.

  “Oho,” I said. “I take it that nothing drastic has come of your efforts. Or should I say nothing worthwhile?”

  “Nothing but Mother’s edict that I shall no longer correspond with David or try to meet with him. Honestly, Nell, she treats me like a child.”

  I rested my forehead on my hand, thinking, and then looked hard at Elizabeth. “And how has Mr. Fletcher taken your attempts to seduce him?”

  “With damnable insouciance.” Elizabeth drove the heel of one neatly buttoned boot into the carpet. “That’s the worst of it. I think he likes me—really likes me—but how am I going to find out if I can’t spend five minutes alone with him?” The last words came out in a wail. I waggled my hand to indicate she should lower her voice.

  “Is that what you want from me?” I asked. “To find out if he really, really likes you?”

  Elizabeth’s lower lip protruded a little. “I need you to talk to him. Work out a way I can speak with him and he can speak with me.”

  “A correspondence that would be expressly against your mother’s wishes.”

  “So what?” This time Elizabeth’s voice was decidedly too loud, and I wondered if we were attracting attention. “Nell, in the name of friendship—”

  I held up a hand to stem the flow of words. “I can’t be a party to your schemes of seduction. But”—I put up the other hand as her mouth opened in protest—“I should talk to Mr. Fletcher anyway. I’ve let financial matters at Aldine Square slip. I could use the opportunity to see where the land lies, as far as he’s concerned. If he’s set on courting you, he’ll find a way—if you’re patient. If not, there’s nothing much you can do. I’m learning that myself,” I added ruefully.

  “Oh, do talk to him. And—oh, I don’t know. Convey to him that my interest in him is more than passing. Or something. Oh, this is useless.” Elizabeth flung herself back into her chair, heedless of her dress.

  “It’s all the worse because now Frances is in town,” she continued. “My sister. I have so much to tell her and so much to ask her. Now Mother’s making sure I’ll only see her in Lake Forest when she and Father accompany them from town. It’s mean of her. Oh!” Elizabeth sat up straighter.

  “What? Don’t try to give me suggestions about how to proceed with Mr. Fletcher.”

  She waved her hands expressively. “No, not that. Change of subject. At least, it’s to do with Frances, or rather with that friend of hers, Grace Fairgrieve. That’s whom Frances is visiting.” She looked at my face and sighed. “You’ve forgotten. Lucetta Rutherford’s friend? Who has the maid who used to be Mrs. Rutherford’s.”

  “The Irish girl? I remember her from Kansas.” This was interesting news in that the Irish maid could provide a clue as to Lucetta’s behavior, but not terribly exciting.

  “No, not that one. The Italian girl she had after—who stayed on in New York after Mrs. Rutherford went there. Before she returned and was murdered.”

  “Wait. The Italian girl? The maid Lucetta had at the time of her murder?”

  “Only she didn’t. The girl stayed with Mrs. Fairgrieve. What does the maid matter, anyway? The point is that Mrs. Fairgrieve is here, and I could arrange an introduction to her. Perhaps you could find out something about Mrs. Rutherford’s state of mi
nd when she returned to Chicago.”

  “Perhaps. But an introduction to the maid would be even more useful.” My palms were sweaty. Obviously, Elizabeth hadn’t heard that the Italian maid was supposed to have gone missing after Lucetta’s murder. Thinking back, it wasn’t an element of the murder that was frequently mentioned in the papers.

  Elizabeth grinned. “One doesn’t arrange introductions to maids unless you’re proposing to hire one. But if you want to meet Grace Fairgrieve, I’ll write a note. And I have one more favor to ask of you.”

  “What?”

  “Let me invite Tess and Sarah to Lake Forest for a while. Chicago gets so dreadfully odorous and disease ridden in the summer. Removing them from the city will give you peace of mind—and, more to the point, I won’t be nearly so bored with some company around me. Do you think Sarah’s governess would like to come too?”

  “I have no idea—you’ll have to ask her. Why? Do you think Sarah will get behind with her schoolwork, or are you nervous of looking after a small child?”

  “Neither.” Elizabeth’s eyes gleamed. “I had a few words with your Miss Baker when I visited your house. I detect a kindred spirit as far as the rights of women are concerned. I’d enjoy getting to know her better.”

  “Thank you for making yourself available on a Sunday, Mr. Fletcher.” I waved the banker to a chair. “I’ve been quite busy, you see, and finding time to meet with you during the week has proven difficult.”

  “That’s perfectly all right.” Many men in the banker’s position would have made some ingratiating remark about being at my entire disposal. Mr. Fletcher merely took the proffered seat and opened his notebook, raising his intelligent eyes to me once he’d found the first blank page.

  “I can be brief, as far as the business portion of our conversation is concerned.” I handed Mr. Fletcher a half sheet of paper. “I find that I overestimated our expenditure and that we have a surplus. Here are the correct figures, and there’s a summary of the excess funds I have on hand. I’d like you to adjust what the bank is sending to us accordingly.”

  He took the paper, perused it, made an entry in his notebook, and looked up at me again. “That’s an easy task. What else do you need, Mrs. Lillington?”

  “Nothing for myself. I’ve been charged with a message—”

  Mr. Fletcher rose rapidly to his feet and loomed over me with all of his broad-shouldered height. “Miss Parnell put you up to this, didn’t she?” He sounded annoyed. There was even a note of anger, although it was quickly subsumed as his professional instincts rose to the fore. He sat down again and cleared his throat.

  “Mrs. Lillington,” he began. “Would it be possible for me to ask you—beg you—to leave matters as they stand as far as Miss Parnell is concerned?”

  “You don’t love her, then? I’m sorry—it’s not my wish to interfere, believe me. But I don’t think Miss Parnell is going to leave matters where they stand, even from Lake Forest.”

  “Lake Forest?” He sounded perplexed.

  “She’s been sent back there by her mother—you didn’t know? Elizabeth wanted me to help her find a way of corresponding with you—if that’s what you want. But if, as I suspect, the idea is repugnant to you, let me know, and I’ll find some way of letting her down gently. I don’t think you wish to trifle with her feelings.”

  “Of course I don’t.” A slight flush overspread his cheeks. “And nothing about Miss Parnell is repugnant to me. I hope I never gave her that impression.”

  “Perhaps my words were too strong. Let’s say this: If you are not in love with her, please tell me, and I’ll do what I can to deflect her interest from you. She’s headstrong, but I’m sure her self-respect will conquer her emotions in time.”

  Mr. Fletcher sank his head into his hands and stayed that way for a full minute. When he looked up again, his face was a battlefield of conflicting emotions, his eyes bright. He took a deep breath.

  “I can’t tell you that I’m not in love with Miss Parnell.”

  “Ah.”

  “But for heaven’s sake—can’t she leave me to do my own wooing? This is—just—preposterous.”

  “I think she’d call it modern.” I was beginning to feel amused.

  “But I’m not modern. I wish to put my finances on a sound footing before I approach her father for her hand. I’m waiting for a promotion that should make marriage possible. Not until then will I court Miss Parnell—or any woman.”

  “So you do love her?” I couldn’t help it—a grin had broken out across my face.

  “Since you’re clearly not going to desist, I have to confess to tender feelings for Miss Parnell.” The young man had regained control of himself, and his gaze was steady. “I admire her spirit, her intelligence, and yes, even her persistence. But I am not prepared to do anything improper, even for the sake of the principles she holds dear.” He looked up at the ceiling and then at me again. “My father is a Presbyterian minister, and not for all the world would I do anything to disgrace him. Tell me the truth. Do you think Miss Parnell likes me for myself? Or do I merely represent an experiment she can essay to prove how much more advanced she is than her parents?”

  I was silent for a few moments, considering his question—which was eminently fair. “I think,” I said slowly, “that Miss Parnell’s not entirely clear on what she thinks. She’s impulsive and headstrong, and—quite possibly—in love for the first time. I don’t think she’s toying with your affections. I don’t believe that she would be any less loyal to you if you entered into what you call an improper arrangement than if you married her in a church. She sincerely believes, I think, that a relationship based on Free Love would be a freer and happier state of affairs than if you entered into a marriage that, to her, is founded in a sort of principle of ownership—by the man of the woman.”

  “Do you believe that?” For a moment, Mr. Fletcher looked much younger. He really did love her.

  “No.” I shook my head. “At least, I believe such an arrangement would be a free and beautiful thing indeed, if it didn’t automatically place the woman outside the pale of respectable society. I suspect that respectable society may be wrong—but it’s what we have to live with. One day, perhaps, we’ll arrive in a world where women and men can love each other freely. To believe that utopia is achievable in our time is perhaps a little too optimistic.”

  “Well said.” Mr. Fletcher smiled. “Mrs. Lillington, since you’ve been drawn into this mess, could you try to convince Miss Parnell that I would welcome the chance to be a perfectly boring, conventional admirer of hers? If she can be patient, I could certainly be brave enough to beard Mr. Parnell—who has the reputation of being a fair man—in his den, so to speak, and beg for the chance to start afresh. Sometimes a man simply feels the need to wait until the timing is right for him. Tell her I won’t countenance a meeting between us for the time being—and that I don’t wish to correspond with her either—but I will look forward with fervent hope to a day when such meetings and correspondence are possible.”

  I nodded, and, shaking my hand cordially, Mr. Fletcher made his good-byes and left. I watched him from the parlor window as he ran down the steps and set out in the direction of the street, making a good pace with a lively, athletic stride.

  Sometimes a man simply needed to wait until the timing was right. Was that the case with Martin? He too had a keen sense of the proper way in which to act. In the last few weeks, I had often wondered if his invitation to me to come to Chicago was a rare instance of rashness on his part. Yet my instincts told me that when he’d made that invitation, my well-being had been uppermost in his mind. He’d wanted to assure himself that I had all I needed to put whatever new life I chose onto a sound footing. He would have helped me, and then, at whatever cost to himself, he would have let me go.

  And was what I now interpreted as coldness part of the same sense of fairness and balance? He’d made it clear to me that he’d mourn Lucetta for the proper duration of time. Perhaps he was resolv
ed that we should be apart until that time had come to its conclusion. The knife that had severed Lucetta’s throat had just as suddenly cut away the dilemma we’d been in, with no honorable solution to our passion for each other in sight. Yet it had somehow thrown us back into our former roles of old friends.

  And it was strange, I mused, watching the flame of Sarah’s hair as she ran back home from her outing to the garden with Tess. Now it was I who felt protective of Martin. Thanks to him, I was a wealthy woman with the freedom to do as I chose. His freedom was constrained by the newspapermen and those who thought him a murderer. Circumstances that nobody seemed able to unravel had trapped him.

  Was it selfish to think of Martin and me when Lucetta’s very life had been taken from her? Yes, perhaps. But Lucetta was, I hoped, at peace, and in my human frailty, I couldn’t help thinking of the future—the uncertain future. With one stroke of the knife, the relationship between me and Martin had shifted on its axis, teetering gently on the brink of an irreversible change.

  “Has the tall gentleman gone?” Sarah peeped cautiously around the door.

  I held out an arm to her. “He has. Did you have a nice time in the garden?”

  “We floated my boat, and we saw a fat white duck who said ‘quack’ to me.” Sarah ran to me and climbed onto my lap. “You feel nice and warm.”

  I folded my arms around her and buried my nose in her springy hair, which smelt of damp earth and salt. She shifted so that her head lay more comfortably against my bosom, and a sigh escaped her.

  “Momma, is it the tall man who’s going to be my Poppa?”

  I ducked my head, encountering two jade-green eyes peering anxiously up at me. “What?” I asked in astonishment. “Didn’t Tess tell you it was the gentleman from the bank?”

  “Yes, but she said you liked him. When ladies and gentleman like each other, don’t they get married?”